Inch by tiny little inch...

June 11, 2007

Dumb Ass

Dumb Ass
Tina H. Boogren

In college there was a string of rapes occurring on our Midwest campus in Iowa City. These were scary, dark-alley, brutal attacks on women of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. There seemed to be no leads and tensions were high. An organization was created where women could call and have a man walk her home from the library, bars, etc. Newspapers reported the brutality of the attacks on a daily basis and our campus began to make the news throughout the entire Midwest. It was a scary time.

Through my sorority, a police officer came out to give us some self-defense training and pepper spray. What I remember him saying most clearly was that in something like 90% of cases where mace and/or pepper spray is used, it is usually the victim that is hurt by those products because they are not prepared or knowledgeable as to how to use them. His recommendation to us? Try it out once or twice to make sure that we could handle it. Good idea.

While I did think about my route on campus after dark and tried to make sure that I never walked alone, I didn’t exactly stop going out at the local bars and pubs. No way was some stranger going to ruin my fun! Hurumph! A new kind of camaraderie was formed between students that hadn’t been there before on our large campus. We began to become a “group” by virtue of rallying against the attacks and the notion that this monster was not going to take away our freedom. We would not let him change our lives. Sure, we’d walk in groups and clusters, avoid the path down by the river, and maybe study in our homes after midnight rather than risking the walk to the library. But take away our time at the bars, sucking down margaritas and Camel Lights? I think not.

It was a Thursday night—I remember it distinctly because it was $1 margaritas night at Mickey’s and oh boy, those were my favorite. The bars closed at 2:00am in our town and on this particular night, I was about four to five margs in and on my way home. My two girlfriends split off at the corner and headed west to their apartment while I headed east to my own. I pulled out my pepper spray as I said good-bye to them, assuring them that I would be fine and would call them immediately upon entry of my place, which had become standard operating procedure since this monster had invaded our campus.

As I walked down the quiet sidewalk, the words of the police officer re-entered my mind and I looked down at my pepper spray. I truly did not know how to use it and I knew that it would be so easy for an attacker to take my protective spray and turn it against me only to make the attack that much more brutal.

And so I turned the nozzle and decided to try spraying it. It was a bit tough to get the button down but once I got it, I felt it. On my chin, cheeks, and neck. I had the goddamn nozzle turned the wrong damn way. I had just maced myself. Myself. And boy, oh boy, did it work. The burning felt like my skin was peeling away and I took off in a run to get to my apartment to flush my face.

I splashed and splashed and splashed and splashed and splashed and then remembered that my two girlfriends were waiting to hear that I had arrived home safely. I grabbed my phone and hurried through the conversation, holding a wet washcloth on my face and praying that my roommates would not arrive home to find me in this position. This was a moment that no one—no one—would ever know about. My own private maceing moment.

And so I went to bed covered with wet, cool cloths and hoped that my skin would not peel away from my face in the middle of the night.

I had made it. My face felt and looked normal in the morning and no one was the wiser of my most embarrassing moment.

It only took about twelve hours and then I broke. While out the next night, my friend, Erin, asked me if everything had been ok when I got home last night because I was apparently pretty “short” on the phone. I lost it and confessed. Through my own laughter and tears, I broke and told them my ridiculous story. They laughed until they cried and then took me over to the back bar of the Union where black lights create the ambiance of the dance floor. And yes, just as expected, my skin glowed green right around my chin, cheeks, and neck. Just like the police shine a black light on rape suspects, the dance-floor shone its black light on me, the dumb ass.

The campus rapists was eventually caught and identified as a stand-up comedian. Ironic in a disturbing way. And while I never had to use it on a stranger, I was the master of my mace from that day on.